Larry Trotter and the Hippopotamus Stone
by danvevers
Summary: This is the start of a long project in which I plan to parodise each Harry Potter book in turn. This is the beginning of book one, and in this first chapter, Mr Durstlee gets a hair in his chicken, and Albert Fumbledore suffers from deafness...


Mr Durstlee was a complete and utter git. His wife, Mrs Durstlee, was unfortunate enough to resemble a giraffe with South American measles. However, perhaps she deserved it, as she only married Mr Durstlee for money and maybe his moustache. Then again, Mr Durstlee only married Mrs Durstlee for massages and the dishes.

Most scientists agree to a level of unquestionable certainty that if something is to be rolled down a hill, it gathers speed during its descent. However, Mr Durstlee is a scientific sensation, as, due to his immense body weight, he would in fact slow down if rolled down a hill. Some theorise that he would in fact simply crush the hill back down to sea-level. He had reached such a higher state of obesity that he was often called the Buddha of fat people by his … well not friends, that's not the right word … more like … ah yes, enemies, that's the one.

So here they are, the Durstlee family, Mr Blobby and his wife Crane-woman, and also, a new arrival who had recently arrived in a most arriving way. Dunker was one year old but could already kill, prepare and eat a chicken in one day. He had thick yellow hair and his nappies burst at ten minute intervals. If a canary and a puffer-fish mated, your initial suspicion would be that Dunker was their inter-species love-child.

Mr Durstlee was, as Mr Durstlee tended to do during the week, working in his office. He was sitting on a pair of conjoined chairs, which had been kindly stuck together by a fellow fatty at his work. One buttock for each chair – that was Mr Durstlee's firm philosophy. If he could just share out his posterior between two four-legged hard-backed chairs, then he was quite content. Currently it was his lunch break, and he was in the middle of scoffing a hundred and twenty-seven chocolate doughnuts and sixty-eight chicken pasties he had purchased from the local bakery. He often wondered why bakers didn't put the two together and make chocolate pasties, or chicken doughnuts. He often wondered why God had cursed him with such obesity, and he would get so angry about it he would decide the only way he could vent out his anger was by eating as much as humanly possible.

It was then he found a hair in his food – a bit of hair in a bit of food in his _moustache_ to be precise.

That was it; he heaved himself to his fat feet in a rage, considered taking a brisk walk down the stairs in his flurry of second-wind anger, but wisely chose the elevator, as his heart was surrounded by masses of cholesterol. However it was a challenge fitting into the lift, and the poor tea-lady who was simply trying to reach Mr McNeill to offer him a cup of tea and a digestive was crushed into an oddly designed carpet.

He left the offices and stormed across the road. Then, to Mr Durstlee's horror, a bus hit him before he could reach the pavement on the other side. But the bus was forced to a halt by Mr Durstlee's lard, who then proceeded into the bakery.

'Hairinchicken!' he bellowed incoherently to a till-assistant who clearly thought by her terrified facial expression that the apocalypse had come early.

Two people in the queue muttered something, and Mr Durstlee's intense paranoia about a certain subject led him to believe that the people had said "we wizards wear hats."

However, the person in the queue had actually said to the other "that man is exceedingly fat."

Shaken and stirred and messed up in any other way you can think of, Mr Durstlee made his slow, heavy way back to his office, having been refunded with his own manager's contract for the bakery by the terrified till-assistant. The word "wizard" buzzed around in Mr Durstlee's obese head, followed closely by the word "hats", which was succeeded by the word "food". He was absolutely uncomprehending towards the definition of wizard food-hats, but all the same he hated any _unnatural_ or _abnormal_ thing that crossed his path, almost as much as he hated _italics_.

His mood of fat paranoia was not helped once he had reached the opposing pavement – incidentally, you may find that when describing any of Mr Durstlee's moods I might decide to tag "fat" at the beginning of the phrase, e.g. fat anger, or fat cabin-fever – when he saw two children – a boy and a girl chatting animatedly. In passing, Mr Durstlee could have sworn the children muttered the two of the most feared words in Mr Durstlee's vocabulary: "_Larry Trotter"_.

However, the two children were in fact discussing a completely unrelated topic – a series of novels about a boy named Harry Potter.

As Mr Durstlee stepped into the building he worked and entered the lift, "Larry" buzzed around in his head, with the word "hats" lagging behind, and the final word "indigestion" tailing. Why Larry having indigestion whilst wearing multiple hats was relevant to the oddness Mr Durstlee felt surrounding the day, he didn't know: all he knew was that he should have considered the bodily consequences of buying enough pasties and doughnuts to feed the five thousand three times over – Jesus was, after all, mused Mr Durstlee, damn good at the fish and bread, why not chicken and chocolate bakes too?

But Mr Durstlee soon got back to work, and put hats and Jesus to the back of his fat mind. He thoroughly enjoyed the rest of his shift, feeling that he was breaking new ground, both figuratively and literally. He drank lots of tea, filed some paperwork, and figured out how to spell _BOOBS_ on the calculator.

A few hours later, and he was on his fat way home. Number Five, Privet Lane … his favourite place.

At six o' clock, having just finished their meal, the Durstlee family tuned into the news. It turned out owls had been flying around Britain all day, much to the surprise of the Institution of Ornithology, the newsreader had remarked. Also, Bin Laden, she had said, had been sighted in a Texan McDonald's drive-thru, purchasing a milkshake, which police in fact believed to be carrying plutonium and a flux capacitor.

'What is the world coming to?' sighed Mrs Durstlee, without any real conviction, before continuing with her dusting.

'I blame commies,' said Mr Durstlee thickly, though his mind was on other things.

Owls in broad daylight … the fact that an institution for Ornithology existed … and a whisper, a whisper about the mutual respect between Jesus and Larry Doughnut, or something of the sort. It couldn't have anything to do with – to do with _them_, could it? Though he had other theories – personally, Mr Durstlee suspected gypsies of foul play, but he didn't want to beat about the bush.

Not long later that night, the family settled into bed. Mrs Durstlee was reading a novella on cosmetic surgery, while Mr Durstlee lay quietly next to her, sinking deeper and deeper into the groaning mattress, even though much of his fat hung off the bed. He thought about the name Larry … he couldn't even be sure his nephew _was _called Larry. Perhaps it was Latoya or Li'l Rascal … he was comforted by his uncertain yet hopeful conviction that his ears had deceived him, and that even if they hadn't, it could be a _different_ Larry Indigestion or whatever his surname was.

What are the odds this strange business will affect my quiet, well-meaning, yet horrifically ugly family, he thought, inwardly yawning. Slim to none …

Bollocks mate, bollocks.

Albert Fumbledore, who had just crossed the invisible threshold into the street of Privet Lane, fumbled with his small, fiddly, platinum Out-Putter, which as well as putting out numerous streetlamps at a time, was also very helpful during games of golf.

Fumbledore stared at a nearby cat in a way that suggested he grossly disliked the said cat. He knew it to be Professor McGoggle; a witch Fumbledore often thought failed to see the funny side of life … or the happy side … or any side at all. At the school Fumbledore ran, he had noted on multiple occasions just how large the "Kick Me" sign on McGoggle's back was.

Putting these irrelevant thoughts to the back of his old, slightly senile mind, he began to sing a song. Being so old, his hearing was impaired, and the feline Professor still sitting on the wall was forced to listen to Fumbledore's every dire vocal mistake. It was hard to believe this musically inept O.A.P was in fact the greatest sorcerer alive and in a body.

It was then McGoggle decided to transform.

'Don't ever do that again,' she said, her huge goggling spectacles glinting imperiously. Fumbledore fell into a quiet sulk. After a pause McGoggle enquired 'Where is the boy, Albert?'

'He's out of my hands, Margaret.'

'Yes I can see that,' McGoggle snapped. 'But whose hands is he in?'

'Not so much hands as arms … large, hairy, giant-esque arms.'

'Hagrod?'

'Eh? What did you call me?' yelled Fumbledore, cupping his hand elegantly to his ear. 'No don't be ridiculous.'

'Then whose arms is the boy in?' asked McGoggle, confused and very unhappy about it.

'Yes, yes, that's right,' said Fumbledore knowingly. 'Dead right. Hagrod's got him, did you know? You know Hagrod: tall guy, sort of yeti-come-werewolf, _bad teeth_.'

At 205 years of age, however, it was common knowledge to most that Fumbledore himself had no teeth, and used gummy bears and chipolatas as replacements.

'Yes, Albert, having worked with Hagrod for forty years,' replied Margaret McGoggle.

'You've worked with Hagrod for forty years, have you not, Margaret,' queried Fumbledore airily.

'Yes,' McGoggle admitted patiently.

'Then riddle me this,' Fumbledore continued, his voice rising to a holler. 'What's a penguin with sunburn that is black, white and red all over?'

'A penguin with sunburn?' McGoggle answered, visibly bored.

Fumbledore looked distinctly shocked.

'Goodness, Margaret, what questions you do ask!'

Then a loud shrill bell rent the air, a piercing noise that McGoggle oddly recognised as a bicycle bell. A Spielberg-esque scene followed: the gigantic man Hagrod descended on a pink flying bicycle, silhouetted by the moonlight, with a baby wrapped tightly in a white bundle of blankets in his arms ('Look, no 'ands sir!' Hagrod cried, as if enjoying an Alton Towers attraction). Hagrod, bike, baby and all landed gently on the pavement next to the witch and wizard already there.

'E.T. PHONE 'OME!' shouted Hagrod wildly, clearly coursing with adrenalin.

'Shut up,' replied Professor McGoggle immediately.

'Condone who?' asked Fumbledore politely.

There was a moment of incredulous silence on Hagrod and McGoggle's part, while Fumbledore strained his ear attentively towards the pair of them, calmly waiting for a reply.

'Er, I've got the boy,' Hagrod said loudly. 'Larry.'

'Have you got the boy Hagrod?' enquired Fumbledore,

Hagrod violently gesticulated in affirmation.

'Oh excellent!' cried Fumbledore, clapping his hands together and breaking four fingers and a thumb. 'I'd trust you with my life you know, Hagrod!'

'Thanks! Very! Much! Professor!' Hagrod replied clearly and at swelling volume.

'Will you fools keep it down?' McGoggle whispered in urgent annoyance. 'Mugs live here, you'll wake them! Wizarding secrecy, remember?'

'What do you mean the blizzard's decreasing?' puzzled Fumbledore. 'It's the summer. Oh no, the Dark Lord Voldok hasn't risen again after all these years has he?'

'What do you mean "after all these years"?' cried McGoggle, exasperated. 'He only disappeared a few hours ago!'

'Yarhar Professor,' interrupted Hagrod. 'Tha's why you asked me ter collect Larry from the wreckage of the Trotter 'ouse tonight.'

'I did?' exclaimed Fumbledore, non-plussed. Then, slowly, a disbelieving smile spread across Fumbledore's face. 'Do you mean to tell me that this – this boy survived Voldok's wreckage? That Larry defeated _him_? Made the Dark Lord _disappear_?'

'That's the message you sent me by owl mere hours ago, yes,' McGoggle said, bristling irritably.

'How wacky,' Fumbledore remarked.

'Ye – ye said ye ha' a letter fer these 'ere mugs who're takin' Larry in,' Hagrod stated. 'Left-breast pocket.'

Then he burst into tears, wailing:

'The Trotters – dead, dead I tells ya! An' poor Larry, off to live with Mugs. It – it don't b-b-bear thinkin' 'bout!'

McGoggle attempted comforting the towering, yet cowering, and altogether hairy Hagrod while he blubbered, yet Fumbledore obviously couldn't hear him, and was reading the letter he had just pulled from his coat pocket.

'Well, it's certainly my handwriting,' Fumbledore conceded. 'You see, I don't dot my "i"s. Still, I don't recall writing it, but then I don't recall why there's a pink bicycle in the middle of the road with a bundle in its basket.'

A few moments passed.

'Oh, I suppose the bundle's Larry,' he concluded.

McGoggle and Hagrod nodded curtly, tears in both their eyes. Fumbledore looked up at the door with the number five inscribed on it, and took the bundle from the bike into his wizened old arms.

'Your new home Larry, but we will all miss you, though you can not yet talk, read, write, tell jokes, understand plotlines, walk, run, think, or really do anything interesting at all,' Fumbledore said gently, sadly. Then a curious expression crossed Fumbedore's face. 'What's that smell?'

Hagrod edged forwards, sniffing the air.

'I believe the boy jus' cacked 'imself,' Hagrod asserted.

'Well, I've think we've said our goodbyes,' Fumbledore said hurriedly, grimacing. 'Better to have loved and lost, et cetera et cetera.'

He opened the gate, walked through it, and followed the short path that led to the Durstlee porch, before placing the sleeping, shitty baby on the doormat of Number Five Privet Lane, Fumbledore's letter clutched in his tiny hand, certain that Mrs Durstlee could deal with a stinking infant far better than he.

He looked back: Hagrod was cycling away on a tiny pink bicycle breaking piece by piece as it attempted to hold his gargantuan frame. McGoggle, Fumbledore observed, was still standing there.

'Albert,' she said weakly. 'How in Oz's name did Larry survive?'

Fumbledore surveyed her momentarily through his old disco glasses, which also, in the long run, helped his sight.

'I put it down to alcoholism,' Fumbledore replied.

'What do you mean?' replied McGoggle, brow furrowed.

'Voldok's downfall is down to alcoholism. I will say no more,' he firmly answered. 'But rest assured, if it wasn't such an important strand of the plot in this series of books, I would have told you. But I'm carrying the suspense here, Margaret, _carrying_ it. Readers love me.'

'Right …' said McGoggle in a way that implied she wished Fumbledore locked away with Nazi war criminals. Then she added angrily: 'Well, anyway, would you please not say _his _name in front of me! We're not all as brave or as senile as you!'

'Margaret, Voldok had powers I will never have,' Fumbledore said gravely.

McGoggle sighed impatiently.

'Only because you're too well – _deaf_ to use them!'

'True, true …' mused Fumbledore thoughtfully. 'But it seems that the one who ended up defeating the Dark Lord was in fact a little baby. He will be toasted throughout the world, he will be known as … erm –'

'As what?' interrupted McGoggle, as if on tenterhooks.

'Uh … the boy who … didn't die?' Fumbledore finished meekly. 'I'm sorry, Margaret, lack of imagination in my old age.'

The two stood in silence for a few seconds.

'I best be off –' began McGoggle.

'You best be off,' suggested Fumbledore in interruption.

'Yes – yes that's what I just said!' she snapped.

'Best idea you've had all night, then,' Fumbledore said brightly.

Scowling haughtily, McGoggle transformed back into a cat and slunk away into the night

With a button on his Out-Putter, Fumbledore switched the streetlamps back on, but before any random mug could notice him, he had disanimappearywearygoneygoned.


End file.
